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Dennis can tell there's going to be a beautiful sunset today.
The sky is starting to blush over Pittsburgh, bashfully, slowly, tucking itself to bed.
It's been a hell of a shift, and he doesn't think he's going to any Fourth of July party tonight. Not that he has nothing to do; Dr. Robby is waiting for him on that wretched bike. Dennis eyes it as though it's the foulest of beasts on earth, a hell horse heading home. It will take his dear attending with it, won't it?
“Kid?”
He blinks, looking at the older man. He's wearing a helmet, another one in his hand. He should feel relieved, but doesn't.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He straps it on his head, looking at the bruising sky once before mounting behind Robby. His chest meets that broad back, sending a frisson from his brain down his spine.
“Hold tight, okay?”
Should he touch the hips? Should he wrap his arms around him like a bride in love? The beast roars, grinding old vintage teeth hidden somewhere inside its waspish waist. He must hold on to something. Robby takes off just as he grips his jacket, the push of speed thrusting him backwards combined with the instant tight turn away from the hospital making him squeal and wrap his arms around him.
He can feel the ridge of his soft belly vibrating as he chuckles endearingly.
“Never been on a bike before?” he shouts over the wind.
Dennis screws his eyes shut, burying his face between his shoulder blades. He opens his mouth, strings of rushing air instantly flying in it. He can feel his shirt inflating, flapping in the wind. He must look like a scared flag attached to the man, holding tight. The bike roars again as if amused by his fears.
“It's good! Fast!”
He sees the back of Robby's helmet shake faintly. He can picture his smile, his crow's feet branching around his dark, magnetic eyes. Dennis has no idea why he really agreed to housesit his boss’ home. It's not lost on him that Robby reminded him to build boundaries with Amy only to cross one of the great Rubicons of a professional dynamic. As if he himself weren't waiting on the other side of the stream, hands outstretched, as if calling Robby back from the dead.
If I don't come back.
Dennis curls his hands into fists, knuckles digging in the man's flanks. They keep cutting through the traffic, the air, the whole shitty stuff that happened in the ED.
“Look up, kiddo. You're missing somethin'.”
An invisible hand tugs his head back on his neck, a natural reaction to anything that voice tells him to do. He squints as wind pokes his eyes with swift, petty fingers. They're crossing the bridge. The sky is a dusty pink, clouds too, lurching on like caravans. They merge and dissolve indifferently. He envies that about them. He tries to look further at the water below.
“It's like a mirror!” Robby shouts.
And it is beautiful to see the sky reflected in the river, believe for a second that the earth is upside down. He looks up again right in time for a flock flying above their heads in perfect formation. It doesn't feel like Pittsburgh anymore. They might be out in the open road, not afraid to hide from God's all-seeing eye peering right behind the last strip of sky. He might be going with Robby to Alberta. Help him find his way back to the people that won't be the same without him.
“You will, don't you?”
“What?” he shouts back.
“Please, tell me that you will.”
Robby shrugs. His shoulder taps Dennis’ chin.
“I don't know what you're saying, kid.”
Desperation works through his blood pressure like a heavily laced drug.
“You told yourself that nothing's gonna make you well,” he slots closer, thighs resting fully against Robby's thick ones. “There's gotta be something!”
They take a turn, but he can't see where they're going anymore. His eyes drink in the side of the helmet, the veiny hands guiding the bike, the sharp nose.
Maybe he didn't hear him.
“I'm just trying to say… leave a little more to fate! My grandma used to tell me that, and I did!”
He gets a mouthful of wind, but he spits it right back, clutching Robby dear as death.
“It led me here! I come from empty roads, and it gave me a chance to try again! Are you listening?”
He's sure Robby must be able to feel the pathetic thrum of his heart against his back. He can feel it kick like a baby. There's a little twitch of the helmet.
“I can't hear you, kid!”
Dennis shuts up.
His hands relax, finger by finger. He clenches his core against the pit opening in his stomach. There's a brief moment where he feels the need to see the sky's colors again, but he bows his head. His shielded forehead rests on Robby's shoulder for the rest of the trip to the house he's going to guard.
Poor, loyal, abandoned dog that he is.
⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.
The house sits in a quiet, residential neighborhood. He'd told Dennis it was a bachelor pad, but it's no city apartment.
This is a house.
The front windows look like worn eyes without lids to cover their inanimate sadness. It's fine. More than he could ever ask for. He'll never be able to afford a place like this.
“You like it so far?”
Dennis nods, legs still shaking from the ride. He takes a blind step forward, only to be stopped by a hand on his head.
“Ah-ah. Helmet.”
He looks around, then realizes there's still paddings cushioning his cheeks and skull. Before he can laugh at himself, Robby's knuckles brush his chin, working the clasps.
“Oh, I can–”
“Stay still.”
His limbs fill with lead at the words, standing ramrod straight as the older man peers down at him, chin dipping, eyes so very focused on the area of his chin and mouth. Dennis licks his lips like a nervous dog would. Robby stops unclasping for a second, his eyes taking on an entirely different expression.
“There.”
He lifts the helmet off, holding it by the clasps with his own. Dennis runs a hand through his hair, hoping his curls aren't matted. Robby regards him longer than he should, then walks up to the door.
“Right. Yes.”
The young doctor rushes behind, looking at which key he's using. He's almost glued to Robby's back again, holding on tight—the man runs a hand on his own flank, absentmindedly.
The door opens. They're in.
“Come in, come in. Mi casa es tu casa,” Robby announces, sparing scarce glances to his own abode. He's very much zeroed in on the farm boy breaching his space. “But no parties, remember? Javadi's birthday is not an excuse.”
Dennis gapes, then shakes his head vehemently. “I– absolutely, sir. Wasn't even thinking about it.”
Robby hangs the helmets, sighing under his breath. “Don't call me that, kid.”
He nods, not sure if it'd be considered offensive if he doesn't have much of a reaction while looking around. It's modern, almost minimal. Sure, there's some tasteful design choices here and there, a beautiful open kitchen sprawling in the living room… but there's nothing that catches his eye. Dennis has seen showrooms at IKEA looking exactly like this. Beautiful. Empty.
He jumps when a familiar hand pats him on the shoulder.
“Come. I'll show you around, explain where things are and stuff.”
He starts with the kitchen, opening drawers, gesturing to the pantry. Dennis tries to listen, to remember what he's saying. He really, really does. But the further Robby speaks as they move through the house—empty, so allergic to memories—the more his voice feels far away.
Dennis finds himself squinting, as though a glare of light is blurring the edges of the man. Upstairs, he gestures to the bathroom, pointing at this and that, explaining the misbehaviors of the sink, the unruliness of water pressure at night. Robby almost never truly looks him in the eye. Dennis tries to make out his eyes in the watery blur settling between them, this intimate, great divide. He feels them like a ghost on his skin whenever he's not looking at the older man.
If I don't come back.
There's a bedroom in front of his eyes. Robby must be attempting one of his stupid dad jokes—his shoulders shake, the lines on his unfocused face deepening. To Dennis’ impaired vision and hearing, it looks like he's crying. Then he's shaken by the shoulders, and the veil lifts.
Robby is so very close, chin dipped, brows furrowed.
“Are you okay, kid?”
Dennis draws a lungful of air, yet his chest is unfulfilled.
Inexplicable tenderness brushes those wise, worn brown eyes.
“There's no reason to cry, okay? If you don't want to do this–”
He touches his lashes, finds them wet. Fuck. He rubs at his eyes furiously, but it's no use.
Robby slides his big hand behind his neck, holding him still.
“W-what are you doing?”
The sleeve of his jacket covers his sight as he wipes the tears off his face, gently. When he lowers his arm, he's looking down at him, but not really.
“There.” He murmurs.
Another Robby would have asked him why he was crying, perhaps sat down with him, too. Hugged him, if the misery in Dennis’ eyes tugged at his heart so. But this Robby pats his shoulder, and walks downstairs, head low.
“I need to go.”
A pang to his chest, and Dennis is downstairs with him in a heartbeat. Is there a way to stop him? Can he plant his feet on the ground and hold him back from going over the Rubicon again? There seems to be an invisible voice calling the man from outside. He can't hear it. It kills him that he's never been close to knowing his way around this man's heart.
Robby is almost at the door. He's not looking back once.
Dennis feels like a farm boy again, sprinting after an errand animal, almost breaking his legs clearing fences. The rush is the same as he walks faster.
“Wait–”
His shin catches on the edge of the couch, making him trip and fall on his hands and knees. The pain is instant and gone when he sees boots stopping before his fingers. His eyes climb up and up, and finally, finally meet Robby's. There's an odd, wild edge to them now. He knows that look, has seen it in a farm dog's eyes once; the weariness and the terror of guarding helpless things from the jowls of life.
It escaped to chase a predator in the woods.
It never came back.
Dennis is on his knees.
Robby is taking deep breaths.
There's that strange, unnameable thing alive again between them. Trinity told him she always expected something to happen every time Robby was in a room with him.
A ripple in time.
“Sir…”
Fingers clutch his cheeks so harshly he's sure Robby is able to feel his teeth. He's also trembling.
“Don't–”
Dennis opens his mouth on purpose, piously glancing up. Robby is the first human being he's come across after years of crawling the earth, sad and alone. The grip loosens enough to be comfortable. He licks his lower lip. He's dreamed of being on his knees for this man countless times. Enough to not feel ashamed anymore, at least.
He could suck his cock if that's what it takes.
He could. Would. Until it's night outside, and that voice isn't calling anymore. Stretch his throat, permanently shaped by Robby's shaft. He loses the eye contact to glimpse at his crotch. He's tenting.
“Why are you–” he stops himself, gnashing his teeth like a rotten man, then almost moans: “Weeks without touching you.”
Dennis curls his fingers in his belt loops, hanging like his knees are not safely on the ground. The hope in his eyes must be infuriating to see.
“I can help you.”
He tries to nuzzle his zipper, but he's roughly lifted up on his feet. The edge of the couch digs into the back of his knees as Robby pins him there, hand still around his face like a muzzle. He feels his belly pushing against his flat stomach. He can smell the decay in his head from his breath. He'd do anything to clean his thoughts, he would not care about all the rotten work.
“Why,” Robby mouths against his mouth, “are you trying to do something that you can't?”
Dennis shivers, feeling strength in his arms again, a sliver of possibility he could hold him from the river banks.
“I–”
He gasps, a thick thigh jammed between his legs. He knows Robby isn't being rough on purpose, and that he's not even angry at him. Or angry at all.
“You can't.” A glint in his eye, fingers digging again. “You can't. I'm sorry, kid.”
Their foreheads touch for the sweetest moment. Robby squeezes his eyes shut when he gets a whiff of Dennis’ cologne on his neck.
“I'm sorry.” He runs his beard along the taut tendon. “Fuck, Whitaker…”
Dennis grips his flanks when he's shaken again, and that somehow breaks the spell he was so willing to be subjugated by. Robby takes big steps back, heaving. Dennis looks at his shoes, can see the water lapping at his heels. His stomach twists.
“That's it,” Robby exhales. “I need to go.”
⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.
The sky outside is a deep shade of shame when Dennis rushes after him. The clouds are a lovely purple hue.
“Take care of the house, clean it twice a week,” Robby's saying, checking his bike without really checking it. “No parties. That's the main rule.”
Dennis opens his mouth, but the roar of the engine cuts him off. Robby slaps his sunglasses on with shaky fingers. His hands fall limp at his sides as he stands there, the keys of a house that doesn't belong to him hiding in his pocket.
There's nothing he can do, is there?
Robby takes a breath, then looks at Dennis. The world stops turning. His heart stops burning.
He lifts the sunglasses over his forehead, crows feet all pointing to his beautiful eyes. He's got the happiest smile on his face Dennis has ever seen. Robby takes a long look, as though he's holding him in his hands like water.
“Here's looking at you, kid.”
The young man opens his lips.
Robby rides off into the sunset before he can wish him safe travels.
Dennis runs off the pavement, standing in the middle of the road. He raises his hand, waving it as fast as he can. His eyes blur again, but he can still see the silhouette turning into a distant dot. There's a tug on his heart when Robby reaches a crossroads at the end of the street. When he turns left, Dennis stumbles forward as though an invisible rope between them got stretched until it snapped.
He rubs his chest, wind picking up all around him, chasing after the dying roar of the bike.
There. The river has closed on him. Dennis can't really see him standing on the other side. There's dry grass, and dark woods behind. He can just about see the flagging of a tail disappearing inside them.
⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.
He's left his helmet at home.
Dennis rests his head against it, drawing a shuddering breath.
The house is even emptier now. It regards him with unrestrained indifference, the lack of personality of a place that hasn't been lived in. It crashes like a mighty wave over his head, the fact that he misses Trinity so much. Maybe Robby is taking him from her as punishment for helping Amy.
He ends up in the bedroom, not able to recall how he managed to get there without crumbling to the floor. He buries his face in the pillows, heaving like he's been drowning for the past hour as soon as Robby's cologne enters him.
This is the only thing that tells him someone lived in this house.
“Oh, Robby…”
He squishes his face there until he can feel the mattress under his nose. He can't even breathe properly now. He might as well force the oxygen out of his brain like this. Killed by the memory of Michael Robinavitch.
His phone rings.
He takes his face off the pillow, coughing.
It's Trin.
Trinity: all good at the big boss place?
Dennis can almost hear her sarcastic drawl behind the text. He wipes his eyes, thumbs hovering over the screen.
There's a sound downstairs. He stops, listening in. Every muscle in his body tightens, ready to propel him forward, into Robby's arms.
Then the sound ceases to exist, and the house is empty again.
His thumbs work over the keyboard.
Dennis: I ache here.